


Each and Every Kiss

by Regency



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Prompt Fill, Spoilers for Bridget Jones's Baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 04:24:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8130314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regency/pseuds/Regency
Summary: (Spoilers for BJB in case you missed the tag.)A series of very important kisses between Bridget, Mark, and Jack.





	1. Bridget/Jack, 5: comfortable kiss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elletromil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elletromil/gifts).



> Written in response to a variety of [kissing prompts](http://sententiousandbellicose.tumblr.com/post/150891073635/so-you-can-choose-which-ones-you-want-to-do-but-i#notes) on Tumblr.
> 
> (I feel like my Mark bias is showing.)

Bridget is cooking. It's not going well. Nothing's blue as yet, but things have taken a turn for the wilted when all she wanted was to blanch a few leeks. They're very bright, very beautiful, very sad leeks. This isn't how she wanted to impress Jack.

They're trying to get to know each other through their own personal program of speed dating to see if romance can work for them. They're on a bit of a deadline–she give her bump an assessing glance and is reassured to find she hasn't ballooned any more in the last hour; one can never be sure. Five months and counting till Baby Jones (Jones-Qwant? Jones-Darcy?) makes his way into the world. The least she can do is promise him one stable option to choose from.

She's just about given up the potato-leek soup she was bumbling toward to call out for Greek takeaway when her front door opens unexpectedly. Well, not unexpectedly. It's Jack ferrying something that smells divine and doesn't turn her stomach.

_The perfect American boyfriend._

He smiles at her like she alone lights up his world. "Hey."

She beams, trying not to let it take over her face. _These leeks are going straight in the bin._ "Hey."

This is nice. This routine of him hanging up his jacket and helmet and coming to greet her with a kiss that curls her toes. It's rather lovely.

She could get used to this.


	2. Bridget/Mark, 13: a kiss we had to wait for

This kiss shouldn't mean so much. It isn't their first, by any means. It's not even their best. They're both smiling too much and Bridget is fighting off gleeful tears. They're in public. Mark isn't given to excessive public displays of affection. Until now, this last year excepted.

Mark kisses her as though he would do it on every street corner and charge their audience a fare for the privilege of watching. He kisses her as though there's little else life is for. He kisses her with all his hidden heart, and then he gives her that heart in the form of a gold ring.

This isn't their first kiss ever–it's better. It's the first kiss of the rest of their lives.


	3. Jack/Mark, 15: a kiss because I have literally been watching you all night and I can't take anymore

Mark glances away from the fireplace to find Jack standing at his shoulder.

"Finally got your courage up?" Mark needles. This is how he copes when change gives chase: deflect, deflect, deflect. Jack is transformation made flesh and Mark's first impulse to cringe. His second is to investigate. His third is to possess. Mark has his reasons for refusing to accommodate his third-level impulses, bar the one that led him to Bridget. They're rarely anything but trouble.

Much like Jack Qwant.

"What's that?" Jack joins him on the couch. Their shoulders brush. Mark shed his jacket and tie on returning home. His shirt is a negligible barrier, designed to be thin and airily made, not to keep out American mathematicians too well versed in the laws of attraction, affection, and love. Not to rebuff tempting body heat.

"You've been watching me all night. You're not very subtle." Mark reaches for his glass, remembers he's finished it, and sighs.

"And you're not very tactful unless you want to be."

"What do you want with me, Jack?" _Cut to the chase. Get to the root of it. It'll hurt less._ Not at all his experience, but even logical men resort to self-delusion at times.

"The same thing Bridget does."

Bridget, who is supposed to be refilling their glasses, has characteristically left said glasses behind. It's astonishing Mark didn't notice before. "Did she put you up to this?"

"Let's say she didn't discourage me."

Jack is the most spontaneous of the three of them, more so than Mark and Bridget combined. Mark isn't convinced Bridget has enough reticence in her body to contain him, if that was something she wanted to do. No, most likely this is some scheme they've devised together in the hopes that Mark might agree.

"Should she have done?"

"That depends on you."

Pretty banter does little for Mark. He speaks for a living, his words condemn and save lives; a wit is lovable for an evening, but for a lifetime? More is required in the day to day. Physical presence, emotional investment. The undefinable and yet often unattainable spark. Neither of his previous marriages had it, this one is aflame with it. Yet the lack of other vital components has condemned his relationship with Bridget in the past. Is Jack something they desperately need or something they will fail without? He doesn't know, and Mark loathes not knowing anything.

"What do you want with me?" he asks again, his patience nil, his nerves taut as violin strings.

* * *

Jack squeezes Mark's thigh. "Anything you'll give me." He moves to grab Mark's arm before he can recoil–but Mark doesn't withdraw. "Only if this is something you want."

Mark's nods permissively. Jack leans in and then stops. "Are you sure?"

"I won't be until you kiss me."

Jack leans over Mark to brush their lips together. Mark cups the back of his neck, ruffling the short hairs at his nape. The touch warms his blood. The way Mark eyes his lips makes him think this might work out. He isn't the only one who's wondered how this might feel.

"You don't have to worry about where to put your hands."

Mark rolls his eyes. "I have kissed men before, thank you."

"There's a surprise." To some degree. It makes Jack question what else Mark keeps buttoned close to the vest.

"Not to Bridget. She wouldn't have given her assent if she worried I'd lash out in gay panic. And you wouldn't try this behind her back." That isn't a warning; it doesn't need to be.

"She doesn't like liars. They can't be trusted." That hadn't been a fun time in their relationship, when he'd scared Mark off as he did. Bridget had 'needed space' for about three weeks. He'd been scared he'd lose her and the baby beyond simply losing her heart to Mark. She forgave him ultimately, but she had been firm. No more lies, not even white lies. Be true or be gone. He takes her words to heart.

"No, they can't," Mark confirms. "Can I trust you? With my family? My wife and son?" Mark is not a fighter in the physical sense, but Jack knows that he'd fight with his last breath to safeguard those he loves. That only spurs him on. What he wouldn't give to be counted among them.

"With everything. I'll be here, whenever you need. You have my word I'm not just going to leave in the middle of the night if, when things get hard."

Something devastated flickers in Mark's eyes, and Jack is momentarily taken aback. Then, it clicks.

"You, too?"

Mark doesn't have to confirm. Waking up after the best night of your life to nothing. And then three months later, another high, another moment that must have been a dream, and then _nothing_. Or not quite nothing, but less than you hoped for. A person can become accustomed to the uncertainty. They begin to rely on it. Better to expect loss than anticipate joy and be horribly wrong. You can't be injured by losing what you never expected to be allowed to keep. Looking at Mark now, he questions how the man has any hope left.

"Hey." He grasps Mark's shoulder. "Still not going anywhere."

"And still not kissing me," Mark deflects goodnaturedly, "a fact I find genuinely disappointing."

Jack remedies that instantly, tipping Mark onto the backrest of the sofa and kissing him soundly. Mark is responds beautifully, sliding his wide hands up Jack's sides and up his back to cup his shoulder blades.. His lips part sweetly at the slightest provocation.

Mark kisses like the kind of man he is. Restrained yet intense. Focused to the point of tunnel vision and cautious. His hands are more presumptuous. While his lips are firm yet seductively solicitous, his hands roam wherever they can. Jack's jaw, his hair, underneath his collar, skimming over his ass and up his spine. Jack melts into his ministrations, sliding down till they're chest almost to chest at an unforgiving angle. Neither complains.

"Sure yet?" he prompts, only half joking.

"Hm, yes. Getting there."

Kisses aren't magical, any more than intentions are, but Jack is struck as by a spell with the need to keep kissing Mark as he reclines in a sprawl on the sofa, long limbs splayed haplessly in every direction, flushed down to his open collar, his eyes invitingly dark and hooded. Jack might have been the aggressor, but his prey is beckoning him back and he wants to obey. He really, really does.

Self-control isn't actually an option.

Mark's shirt is soon completely undone. Jack's sweater is discarded across the room. They're skin to skin, already preoccupied with discovering how well they fit together–Mark knee presses carefully, deliberately between his thighs. Jack sucks intently at Mark's ear. He has sensitive ears, an erogenous holdover from his youthful ear piercings. Jack's finding out new things about Mark already. It's intoxicating, the privilege of taking the most repressed man in England apart. No wonder he binds all his passion in chains, it would burn the bravest people. _But not Bridget and not me._

Mark maneuvers Jack onto his back and slides up his chest to return to their regularly scheduled foreplay. His lips are firmer, seeking, dominant without overpowering. He peppers feather-light kisses over Jack's lips. Jack shivers; his nerves tingle as their lips slide over each other. He grabs onto Mark instinctively. He feels oddly vulnerable being kissed that way. He hadn't allowed for emotional, chemical, burning connection when he calculated how this might go. Desire is predictable, but this…this is undeniable.

"Sure?" Mark asks from above him, capably turning the tables on Jack hastily-composed hypothesis. _If we can get along, we can make her happier._ This is more than getting along. This is an entirely new configuration.

"Very sure." Jack accepts that he's beat. It isn't a loss.

Bridget clears her throat indelicately from the door. They shift to look at her. She's brought out a bottle of champagne left over from her and Mark's wedding reception. She's splotchy down to her collarbones. She's stunning and Jack doesn't have to wonder how long she's been watching. They beckon her over; she comes gladly.

"This changes things a bit, I hope."

She doesn't sound so much delighted (though, there's that) as relieved, expectant. Mark looks calm and accepting, kiss-bruised and inviting as hell.

Yeah, Jack has to agree, this changes _everything_.


	4. Bridget/Mark/Jack, 18: kisses because I don't want you to go and maybe I can convince you to stay just a few minutes longer

Jack is watching him from the bathroom door. He's already dressed for a Skype conference with his contacts in Beijing: a morning meeting for him, an afternoon affair on their end. He should be back in bed keeping Bridget company, but he's drinking coffee and watching Mark wrangle his hair, some kind of fond sympathy coloring his expression. Their daily hair regimens are equally arduous, although Jack frequently forgoes one, perfectly content sporting the just-woken look. Court etiquette is not so permissive, irrespective of the wigs.

Mark lowers the roaring hair dryer to work a kink out of his arm. Many of Bridget's friends wonder how he had the strength to carry her across London the night William was born; if they knew he earned his upper body strength bench-pressing a Helen of Troy Fast Dry Speed Hair Dryer by Revlon every day, he thinks they might respect his effort slightly less. His shoulder is twinging and he's only done the left side. He sighs.

Jack, perceptive man that he is, takes pity.

"Need a hand?"

"Not necessary, but if you've got a minute."

"I've got an hour. You don't." He relieves Mark of the instrument of his discontent and makes efficient work of taming Mark's natural curls. That hair on a young man is dashing; on a man of advancing age, it only feels foolish. "She likes it like this."

"It doesn't suit me."

While Jack's expression in the mirror says otherwise, he refrains from verbal disagreement. They lapse into a silence interrupted only by Bridget appearing to brush her teeth and watch them. This is their routine: three in a marriage bed, building a home, and it's working well. Bridget finishes up and offers a suggestion as to how Jack should style his hair. For a moment, Mark has two sets of fingers scraping lightly over his scalp, arranging his locks into a neat coiffure. He gets a shiver as his blood rushes south. Both of them touching him at once, it remains surprisingly erotic. If only there was time to indulge.

Jack warns her at volume almost too quiet to hear, "We'll make him late."

"It's not like they can start without him," Bridget retorts, tittering naughtily. "Look at him. Couldn't you just eat him up?"

Jack's nails scratching at the short hairs at the base of his skull are all the answer Mark needs. In the sort of practiced motion that only gets easier with time, Mark is soon caught between the washroom counter top and Jack's mouth being mercilessly snogged, because Jack can't resist a challenge. The partners have long since spoken: Mark has the best post-snog face, and they seek to induce it at every opportunity.

Mark hooks a leg behind Jack's knees till he falls against Mark on the counter, chuckling against his lips. Jack grabs a fistful of Mark's vest shirt to keep his hands out of Mark's hair. They're a triad of hair-gropers, them; it's an irresistible impulse, so Mark doesn't resist. He tangles his hands in Jack's hair to tilt his head and take a sly swipe at his tongue. Jack surges against him, already hardening where their hips press together.

"Time, gentlemen!" Bridget reminds them, all gorgeously breathless, and too far from Mark to touch.

Jack pulls away, and growling Mark hauls him back, drawing him into the V of his legs to get back at his lips. He has to slump ever so slightly to reach. Jack makes the most of Mark's mostly unclothed state, hands sliding under the waist of his bottoms to stroke his waist, skirt about his arse, and caress the backs of his thighs. Mark hisses. The backs of his knees are embarrassingly sensitive to the touch.

He's most certainly going to be late for court at this rate.

Bridget fans herself, watching the proceedings with ever-widening pupils. Mark has it on good authority that the only thing Bridget enjoys more than seeing them together is being between them. Theirs is a match of complements, emotional, intellectual, and chemical. But most distractingly it's physical. This is where their bonds most beautifully manifest.

Mark and Jack's lips separate with a wet pop. "We leaving you out," Jack asks over his shoulder.

Bridget reclines against the fogged shower door. "Oh no, don't stop on my account. _Ever_."

Jack runs a meditative hand up and down Mark's side, just lightly enough to be scintillating instead of ticklish. His pulse jumps regardless, his abdominal muscles flex at the stimulus. He drops his head back against the mirror. Jack hoists his legs over his waist and drags his lips up the column of Mark's throat till he steals a gasp from Mark's mouth with a smirk.

Just as Mark's about to tell his adult responsibilities to go hang so he can spend the next several hours being summarily shagged by his two stunning partners, William lets out a shrill cry, reminding him _why_ he has to be an upstanding man of his word and appear in court. He pouts. Jack looks very pleased with himself. Bridget looks deliciously aroused.

"Right," Bridget, continues, clearing her dry throat. "Well, I may need some private time after that little…moment."

Mark and Jack share a look. His of yearning and Jack's slightly smug. They disentangle themselves from each other.

Jack strips off his sweater. "I'll handle this. Get Will."

Mark grumbles, inwardly sulking as he retreats to the nursery and Jack lifts Bridget off her feet into a bone-melting kiss. He really should have become a billionaire.

* * *

Half an hour later, Bridget stops him in front of the closet to adjust his tie. He's perfectly capable of doing it himself, but he likes the way she does it just snug enough. There's no real difference in their styles, not that there need be. It's soothing to his nerves to have her touch him. Sometimes he gets the feeling she does it for the same reason.

"There you are, immaculate as ever."

"Thank you."

"Anything for you." She kisses him good morning and goodbye, humming soundlessly in contentment. He threads his arms under her robe to get at her waist. She's wonderfully pliable after the audibly fantastic orgasm she got from Jack after Mark left to dress. Mark is green with envy toward both of them. He'll be half hard all day in frustrated desire.

She walks a hand between them up his thigh and to the left. He groans as she gives his cock a rather delicious squeeze through his trousers.

"Think of us today."

"I always do."

They both accost him for one last round robin of a kiss at the door before he takes his leave. This day is going to be unbearable for anticipation of tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> Come flail with me on Tumblr at [sententiousandbellicose](http://sententiousandbellicose.tumblr.com). You can prompt me things!
> 
> This fandom has been _so_ nice. Thank you for the warm welcome! You can assume this is part of a different chronology than my other fics. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any characters recognizable as being from any incarnation of the Bridget Jones series. They are the property of their actors, producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.


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